Slow Rise & Quick Fall
by Frigonfic
Summary: It was a long, grueling process to rise to the top. It took years of climbing and clawing. But it took only days, minutes, seconds to fall. And it's a long fall from the top. Seneca Crane learned this lesson the hard way.


Hey guys!

So here's another addition to my 'one-shot challenge'.

This one-shot was requested by the lovely Sweet Corruption. Thanks so much for the suggestion - it was one that I would've never thought of, though I'm glad I got the chance to, because writing this one-shot was quite fun.

So, not to delay you any further! Onto the story!

**Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Suzanne Collins.**

* * *

****He only ever wanted to please.

That's it. That was his only goal.

It started with his mother.

His mother loved the Hunger Games. Every year, his mother would eagerly watch the Hunger Games, rooting for the biggest and laughing at the weakest. Seneca's mother had a lot to say about the Games, often voicing her opinion loud and clear for everyone to hear.

It would usually be something like, _oh he should have waited it out a little longer; toyed with her for a few more minutes _or _such a shame that avalanche wiped out half of the tributes; I did quite look forward to seeing what the Careers could've done to them._

And Seneca would watch, too, every year, just as eager as his mother.

"Mama, what's that boy holding?"

"Hush, child! You're disrupting the show! Oh - look at that! Oh, isn't it glorious? Look at the way he squirms! Such pathetic excuses for human beings!"

Seneca's mother loved the tributes. She had an uncanny ability to guess who would be the victor, and every year, she could fawn over the selected tribute like he or she was her own child.

She would laugh when they laughed, cheer them on twice as loud as any other person in the stadium. She would donate large sums of money to sponsor the tributes and send them extravagant gifts. She was most proud of being one of the largest donors one year; her money buying the tribute a beautiful, deadly trident.

Seneca's mother would dote on the tributes, participate in all of their Victory Tours. She loved her victors, and the tributes she bet were always victors in the end - she made sure it happened. She loved her victors like they were her own children.

But she forgot she already had a son of her own: Seneca.

Seneca didn't have any of the fancy clothes or gifts that the other children had. His mother never bought him any. He was constantly ridiculed for it; have you ever seen anyone look so silly?

"Look at you, your hair's this weird black color! Nobody but the coal miners have black hair!"  
"You look so _plain. _Nobody wears those kind of pants except for fisherman and farmers!"

In other words, Seneca was often mistaken as the child of some farmer or fisherman in the Districts.

And Seneca would cry and cry and cry because he had no friends and he had no nice clothes or fancy hair. When he asked his mother for some, she would only look at him, dripping with disdain, and say:

_You idiot boy, don't you see that we need to use the money to sponsor this year's tribute? _

But even though his mother's gaze was filled with scorn, Seneca was glad that she even looked at him.

Seneca's father was never home. He was always out, and Seneca never knew where he went. He didn't even know if he ever came back home at night.

And Seneca's mother was lonely. She would bring people home - one time Seneca saw that bronze-haired boy from District 4 that his mother sponsored - or she would leave for entire days.

Seneca was stay locked up in his room, and would watch the Hunger Games over and over again, wondering why his mother was so fascinated with it.

He watched every Hunger Games tape at least twice, and Seneca still could not understand what made his mother love the Games more than she loved him. If she loved him at all.

Yes, Seneca enjoyed the thrill of the blood and the adrenaline, almost as if he was in the arena himself. He enjoyed watching the tributes scream and slaughter.

But always, always, Seneca found faults.

Maybe that earthquake could've shook a little harder, making it more terrifying. Maybe that muttation should have poison stingers as well; wouldn't it be fun to watch the tributes run from that? Maybe the snow falling could be shaped as spikes, just so we can watch the tributes flail their arms.

Seneca found faults in every single Game ever made, and he would write down what he thought would've made it even _more _entertaining in his little black notebook.

He tried showing his mother his little black notebook, but his mother had no patience for her. She ripped up the book to shreds and Seneca watched as his hope, his hard work, flutter to the floor in a million little pieces.

He never showed his mother his notebooks again.

So it went, an endless cycle, every year. His mother would watch and worship the Hunger Games and Seneca would furiously scribble notes into his little black notebook, eyes wide and taking in every single detail of the Games.

And Seneca would glare at the tributes that would win, because they were always the tributes that his mother loved more than him.

He would watch as his mother smiled - _she never smiled at me - _and talk to the victors with a such gentle, motherly voice.

And Seneca wants to bend his pen in half every time his mother does so, because _it's not fair _and _that should be him._

Seneca wants to throw a table to the large televisions and take a knife and stab those victors just so his mother will _notice _him.

But no. Seneca is a good boy. He makes dinner for his dear mother - every day, another delicacy from the district her mother favors - and he buys her presents and cleans the house.

His mother tells him not to be such an Avox.

So Seneca grits his teeth and watches as his mother coddles the victors in a way she's never coddled him. And cold, bitter jealousy roars through him, and he can only think about his childhood spent in neglect and the bullies, and his mother's reproachful expressions at him and biting tones.

So Seneca grabs his little black notebook and picks out his best clothes and walks briskly to the heart of the Capitol - the Control Room for the Games.

He's dignified while walking, though he's steaming with anger. He doesn't want somebody to spot and recognize him and report his bad behaviour to his mother, which will only earn him a quick slap to the cheek and a hiss of insults.

When he reaches the Control Room, however, he can no longer control himself. Not after all those years of playing the good, obedient son and getting nothing but neglect in return.

He opens his little black notebook and almost spits out all the points written inside.

The Gamemakers make a move to stop him, but once they hear what he's saying, they stop.

When he finishes, Seneca is red and boiling and breathless. Once he cools down, his anger ebbs away, only to be replaces with humiliation and embarrassment. What was he thinking, storming down to the Control Room and listing out every single fault they've had for the past seventy years?

He makes his way back to the door, hoping to walk out what whatever shreds of dignity he had left.

But no, something stops him.

Applause.

It's smattering at first, only a few hands clapping. But within seconds, everyone in the Control Room was clapping; standing up and even some hollering and whooping.

And for the first time, Seneca feels respected. Prized, even, as if he was a tribute and he was the last one standing.

The Head Gamemaker makes his way up to him and pats him on the shoulder.

"My young man, goodness me! I've never seen anything like that before! You have noticed every minute fault in all of our seventy years and you have point out some we have not even noticed! Oh, my, my. My dear young man, are you a fan of the Hunger Games?"

Seneca wants to shake his head like a dog and tell him that he _hates _the Hunger Games because it makes his mother love someone other than him.

But he's not going to do that, most certainly not in front of the Head Gamemakers and all the other Gamemakers.

Instead, Seneca says, "You could say I'm an avid watcher."

**.**

After his outburst at the Control Room, Seneca returns back home to his mother, who was watching reruns of the last Hunger Games. When Seneca sees what she's watching, he wants to scoff. That year, he knows for sure was the Gamemakers biggest fault. Who could ever miscalculate the strength of the earthquake? Now all the good tributes were drowned and only that crazy girl from 4 is alive, the new victor. His mother his seething at the television, the first time the tribute of her choice hasn't won.

She doesn't turn around when Seneca enters the room, doesn't even turn to look at him when he calls her.

"What?" She snaps.

"Mother. I'm a Gamemaker now." Seneca tells her, dazed, still not quite believing it himself.

His mother turns and glares at him with her hawk eyes.

"Don't lie to me, boy. Do you want another flogging? There's no way you could be a Gamemaker."  
But Seneca hands her the official ID and the forms, all signed by the Head Gamemaker himself. His mother reads and re-reads every single one of them, eyes centimeters away from the sheet.

When she's done, she hands back the ID and the forms back to Seneca.

"Good job, boy." She smiles faintly, barely even noticeable.

**.**

Seneca is a Gamemaker for the 71st Hunger Games.

But he dislikes the idea of a mudslide in the swamp arena and decides to send out rabid alligator muttations instead.

The Head Gamemaker is roaring at him, eyes beady and hot sweat clinging onto his face.

He did _not _give authority for Seneca to send out the muttations and now President Snow wants to see the Head Gamemaker for it. The Head Gamemaker yells at Seneca to go and explain to President Snow what he did.

Seneca, trembling and scared but not apologizing for what he did, heads over to see President Snow in his garden.

President Snow is surprised to see Seneca there.

"What do you want, boy?" President Snow says sharply. "I'm looking to see the Head Gamemaker."

"With all due respect, President Snow, but he sent me to talk to you." Seneca says easily, though he shakes slightly.

"Daft man." President Snow mumbles.

"He said that you wished to speak to him about this year's alligator muttations in the Games. He wanted me to tell you that it was I who created and released the muttations."

Seneca does not apologize. He knows that he did what was best - no one wants to see a _mudslide, _for God's sake. They wanted to see tributes ripped to shreds. Broken. Blood.

President Snow stands up and surveys Seneca with those icy blue eyes.

"You created those muttations, you say? All by yourself?"

"Yes, sir. I did so without the permission to. I hope you don't mind, sir." Seneca's trembling slightly, he does not want to be fired at his job and disappoint his mother, who was more than overjoyed to see his muttations.

"I don't mind? Of course I don't!" President Snow laughs a laugh without any humor in it. "I thoroughly enjoyed the muttations. I wanted to thank him for his genius mind, but I suppose now I don't have to."

Seneca let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"I should have known that the old man didn't think of something as ingenious as those alligators." He says, almost to himself. "He's getting old and his ideas are progressively bringing down the Hunger Games."

Then Snow's ice-cold eyes focus back on Seneca, and Seneca instinctively straightens.

"Now you, young man, what's your name?"

"Seneca Crane."

Snow cracks a small smile; one that was sly and suspicious.

"Very well, Mr. Seneca Crane. Why don't you sit down, I have a proposition that I believe you will quite like.."

**.**

And for the second time, Seneca returns home to his mother with good news.

When his mother finds out that Seneca is now the Head Gamemaker, she gasps and hugs Seneca tightly, smiling that bright beaming smile she reserves only for her victors.

And finally, Seneca feels like he's loved.

**.**

Seneca Crane is the Head Gamemaker for the annual Hunger Games for three years.

For the first two years he's the Head Gamemaker, he creates the most horrific Games - known not for the vicious, bloodthirsty tributes but the harsh, brutal arena.

Everyone loves it.

And now Seneca can walk through the streets of the Capitol with people noticing him, praising him, respecting him.

He can now buy the most expensive clothes made from the riches fabrics and he walks purposely past his old classmates that made fun of him.

Seneca brings black hair back into style in the Captiol.

And his dear, darling mother, who smiles and hugs him every day, finally loves him. He buys her a big house - a mansion - and gets her everything she wants.

His mother's tributes are victors now, guaranteed.

Girls swoon over him, almost as much as they do with past victors.

Oh, behold, the high and mighty Head Gamemaker! The one who creates such beautiful destruction like we've never seen before!

Seneca feels like a god.

But his joy is short-lived.

By the time the 74th Hunger Games rolls over, he is in deep trouble.

He creates another meticulously made arena and is ready for another year filled with bloodshed. He can see it now: wolves from the dead. That would be the talk for _days _in the Capitol.

But then, two tributes halt all of Seneca's glory.

The star-crossed lovers from District 12.

They are all the Capitol can talk about; no one even notices the big burly boy from 2 or the gorgeous girl from 1.

They only notice the lovers from District 12.

And this is an outrage, a mistake. District 12 isn't _supposed _to be noticed! That's not the way it works.

But it's the way it is, and no matter how much respect the Capitol has for Seneca, he can't change their minds.

Seneca doesn't want to be known as the Head Gamemaker that ruined the very best show the Capitol has had in decades - a show that he did not plan.

So Seneca listens to the roaring crowds outside his house and everywhere he goes and he sets a new rule for the Games: there can be two victors this year, only if the tributes originate from the same district.

And everyone in the Capitol cheers. They give him lavish gifts and high praises because now they have a show, a good show at that, and they bless him for his ingenuity.

But not everyone his satisfied.

His mother is not as happy as she normally is. She wishes for the girl from District 2 to win - _she's got that sly, murderous glint in her eyes that I like; reminds me quite of myself, feisty, you see - _and she knows full well that the rule change is for District 12.

And she drops Seneca like a hot potato after holding him so close for the past two years.

Seneca tries reasoning with her; isn't it better now? Now she _and _the big burly boy from 2 can win!

But his mother only screams at him.

_No, you fool, it's not better now! That boy is not who I want to win! I want _her _to win and her _only!

And her scream is like a cool slap to Seneca's face. How quickly his mother hates him once again.

His mother screams that she hates him, that he's a fool and an idiot, and she screams at him to leave.

President Snow is not happy with Seneca either.

Snow dislikes underdogs. He does not want the pair from 12 to win, that much Seneca understood. He had heard the underlying threat in Snow's tone.

At the Feast, the girl from 2 dies. His mother will not speak to him.

At the final minutes of the Game, Seneca knows what he must do. He revokes the rule. Only one victor can win. He already knows that Snow will be angry at him for letting District 12 win, but he knows he cannot let both of them win.

But the girl and the boy are about to swallow the berries - _nightlock - _and then there will be no victors at all.

And Seneca knows that two victors are better than none. He knows that Panem will not accept a Game without any victor.

Seneca calls for the rule to be reinforced again - and both the tributes from 12 are the new victors.

Then Snow tells him that he wants to speak to him again. Peacekeepers, as usual, are flanking his side to lead him to Snow's garden.

Seneca is afraid of what Snow will say. He clearly said that he did not support the notion of the District 12 winning. And now _both _of them have won.

Seneca walks, but he wants to scream. How did it happen all so fast? How did his glory, his fame, his _respect _from the two people he wanted it most from slip through his fingers like sand?  
How did he fall from grace so quickly, so easily?

The Peacekeepers don't lead him to the gardens. They lead him into a room, and before Seneca can turn around to ask what's going on, the doors are shut and locked.

The room is empty and windowless.

All except for the table in the middle room holding an ornate bowl filled with nightlock.

And Seneca screams, lets out all the frustration he's feeling, all the frustration he's ever felt.

He crumbles to the ground, a ghost of the man who a few days prior was at the very prime of his life.

Seneca looks at the bowl of berries in front of him.

All his life, he's only ever tried to please.

Please his mother. Please Snow. Please the citizens of the Capitol.

And he's tried his best, that he knows for sure.

Look where all his hardest efforts have gotten him now.

Now he knows, now he understands, that you can't please everybody.

As he takes a berry and swallows it, one last dying thought rings out in his head.

He realizes he's never tried pleasing himself.

* * *

So, thanks for reading!

This idea just kind of popped up into my head after reading the suggestion, so sorry if it kind of sucks.

But at least this one has more dialogue than the other ones? Eh? Eh? Points for effort?

No, but seriously, I really hope you guys enjoyed it!

Any questions? Comments? Feedback? Feel free to leave it as a review!

Until next time!


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